Red Balloons
by emcewan
Summary: Sometimes, everyone can get a happy ending, but it's a rollercoaster to get there. Between foppish Vicomtes, acerbic playwrights, anguished Phantoms, oblivious sopranos, and falling chandeliers, it's a wonder anything can get done at the Opera Populaire. Still... on with the show!
1. Chapter 1

Hello! First time writing a Phantom of the Opera piece. Will eventually be Erik/OC as we all know what silly decisions Christine makes. My heart broke for him, and I couldn't help writing a piece that let him be happy. I hope I don't do too poorly; I've been out of the loop writing fanfiction for quite awhile now. Still, please enjoy reading it as much as I have enjoyed writing it. Also, at the end of the chapter, the OC is about 20-21 years, so a little older-and hopefully a little wiser-than Christine Daae.

Disclaimer: all those you see copyrighted remain copyrighted. I am merely playing in their rich world. I make no profit from this.

* * *

_** Don Juan Triumphant**_

_ or otherwise known as, __**Musicians Are All Bloody Melodramatic**_

Carlotte was in a tither.

This, of course, was nothing new to the beleaguered populace of _Opera Populaire._ It was a rather common occurrence, actually; the _Prima Donna_ always seemed upset about something or other. Most of the people avoided her if possible. The rest simply tried to ignore her when they could. Some days were better than most.

Today was not one of those days.

"Always, with the dancing girls," she muttered crossly under her breath, mixing in a fair amount of her native Italian. Madame Giry sighed, shaking her head, and corrected a ballerina for a moment before continuing on. Monsieur Lefevre, beloved manager, was making An Announcement today, probably about all the rumours surrounding his retirement. Madame Giry sincerely hoped that the rumours were _false—_he was a good man, a kind man... a _wise_ man.

She glanced unconsciously to the quiet figure absorbing the scene; the girl had an unreadable look upon her face, faintly tinged with either amusement or irritation—or both, knowing her. _The girl could be as open as a stone sometimes_, she thought exasperatedly. It was little wonder, knowing as she did the company she kept.

Oh dear. The two men beside Monsieur Lefevre looked severely out of place, nearly comically so. Their eyes kept darting around with a sort of childish awe. New money, wonderful. Just grand. _He_ would probably not take a change in management too well... and come to think of it, _she_ was as damnably stubborn as _him_ sometimes too.

"God in heaven," she sighed in wistful French.

"Monsieur Reyer, Madame Giry... ladies and gentlemen, please, if I could have your attention? As you know, there have been rumours of my imminent retirement. I can now tell you, they were all _true_, and it is my pleasure to introduce to you the new gentlemen who now own the _Opera Populaire_, Monsieur Richard Farmin and Monsieur Gilles Andre."

The day, for Madame Giry, went downhill from there.

As Monsieur Lefevre pointed out the people who did what and whom they needed _at all costs, gentlemen,_ to keep happy, Monsieur Reyer finally asked about someone who seemed a bit out of place. She was a young woman, pretty, but the single island of stillness in constant musical commotion. She watched everyone with a critical eye, a quill in her hand along with a small, careworn book. The look upon her face was sardonic amusement.

"And _who_ is _that_ quiet slip of a girl?" Reyer blustered.

Monsieur saw who he was looking at and grimaced, taking a swig off a flask. The two new managers looked at him in alarm.

"_That_, gentlemen, is a _mademoiselle_ worth her weight in _gold_. I am sure you heard of the long success of our last season, _Serenity and Endymion_?"

"Yes, of course! One of the best plays _Opera Populaire_ has ever produced! Such an innovative, fresh take on the Arcadian tale. I saw it thrice, myself," Monsieur Andre gushed with sincere, if a bit overwhelming, enthusiasm.

"She wrote it," Lefevre nodded towards her. "Danielle Giry, the brightest writer of our time, gentlemen. Every single play or musical production she has written has brought in more money than two of our last seasons combined. She is a genius... though perhaps the easiest one I have ever worked with. If you give her a request, or she gets an idea into that head of hers, she'll disappear for days—sometimes _weeks—_and then return a masterpiece. Heavens knows she asks for little compared to the _inestimable _La Carlotte. Two or three bottles of fine liquor—the kinds change from month to month, though she's found of rum at the moment—a small percentage of the take on her ideas, and _voila_! Just give her credit for her work and she asks for nothing more." Lefevre shuddered. "But her temper, though slow to rise, is terrible. I suggest, gentlemen, you stay upon her _good_ side."

The two new managers' mouths opened and closed for a moment. Lefevre plunged on.

"Danielle! What do you think of our new managers?" Meg whispered.

Danielle rolled her eyes, a mischievous smile hinting around her mouth. She gently poked her cousin in the ribs.

"Well, they haven't met Carlotte yet."

"Oh," Meg giggled. Danielle chuckled with her, her eyes straying to a curly, dark-haired dancer. Some shadow seemed to drop over her, green eyes growing blank with some unseen emotion. Meg had often caught her lately looking at Christine that way, but for the life of her couldn't fathom why. Christine and Danielle always been on the best of terms, sharing a polite friendship that was sincere, if a bit lacking warmth. Once, Danielle had in her blackest frustration confided to Meg that sometimes she wondered if Christine was naïve or simply ignorant. Meg hadn't brought it up and Danielle hadn't spoken of it since—but sometimes, the sweet dancer worried about her adopted cousin.

"Hello, _Mademoiselle_ Giry! What an honor it is, to meet the unrivaled genius behind _Serenity and Endymion_! Where ever did you get the music from? I have never heard such exquisite angu-"

"Monsieur Andre," Danielle cut it smoothly, "I am confident in my own skills and talents so that my ego hardly needs stroking. I am sure _all_ your strength will be put to... _better use_ elsewhere. Provide my poison, my credit, and I am happy. Unless I am needed, sirs, please _**leave me be**_."

Her voice wasn't sharp or angry—it was steady and quiet, even a little amused. It was, however, as unyielding as solid steel.

Stammering, they guffawed their way out of the sticky command and hurried off. Meg sighed, looking at her with disappointment. Danielle caught the look and sighed.

"I am a _writer_, Miss Meg, not one of you dramatic _opera_ folk. I need peace and quiet to write, and I cannot do that with new managers coming to me expecting to wait on them artistically hand-and-foot. This way, I can still come and go as I please as I always have."

_Or almost always,_ she thought bittersweetly. _I am bound now to this place more strongly than if I were in chains..._

She pulled out her flask and took a long drink, grimacing at the burn. Meg watched her worriedly; once, her dear friend had been as full of joy and song as the liveliest of dancers. Now, some strange ache had taken deep roots in her heart. Danielle had never been the type to cry or show strong emotion, at least not in front of strangers, and rarely among the few privileged to be counted as her friends. She was a woman who carried her burdens, whatever they might have been, privately. Meg wished that she would talk to her, as she sometimes used to do. She couldn't remember the last time Danielle had smiled and it had reached those sharp, wistful eyes. Gently, Meg squeezed her shoulder.

She was rewarded with a quirk of soft lips, a firm squeeze back.

"I'd better go before _La Carlotte_ gets here. She and I in the same room is _never_ an excellent idea," Danielle laughed. Meg rolled her eyes.

"How long are you going to hold it against her that she did not meet your expectations as _Serenity_?" Meg demanded playfully.

"Until she meets them!" they chorused, dissolving into giggles.

Hugging Meg tightly, the writer bid her momentary farewells and slipped away unnoticed save by her adopted aunt, Madame Giry, who watched her with sad, knowing eyes.

* * *

The cool, quiet world of the catacombs was a relief after the frantic heat and constant noisy movement of the surface world. She breathed deeply, carefully making her way down into the depths. She traced her path by heart, the gentle echoes of painfully beautiful and anguished music guiding her, growing louder as she descended. Finally, she blinked painfully in the candlelit ambiance of Music's Throne, its Strange Angel already hard at work.

"The rumours, it would seem, were actually true this time," she spoke abruptly, not waiting for him to acknowledge her. He didn't reply until he'd finished the haunting piece.

"I thought they might be. I'd overheard some business discussions. Apparently, we also have a new _patron _as well."

She closed her eyes, letting the rich baritone of his voice wash over her. For a moment, her heart tightened painfully, her throat dry. _If only you could see into my thoughts, your music might be happier... but as long as Christine Daae exists, I will only be a ghost._

"Yes. Well. I suppose I should have known that you would know first," she chuckled wryly.

Danielle was tempted to reach for her flask again, but refrained. He would take it as a sign of weakness, or worse—_uncomfortability_. She shook her head, chasing off the depressing thoughts.

"Well, Erik," she smiled, her eyes drinking him in as she approached with unconsciously sensual grace, "I suppose I'd better go back to writing the new production, then."

He looked at her and nodded, but didn't speak again. She took that as encouragement that she wouldn't be shooed off, settling down near his feet to write. They fell into companionable silence.

* * *

_Danielle had been thirteen when she had come to Opera Populaire; skinny, dressed in rags, her feet cut badly. Monsieur Lefevre hadn't known what to make of it. She'd calmly told him she was there for the job of playwright, was it still open? Oh it was? Good, then she hadn't been too late. She could start immediately. Flustered with her mature, unshakeable confidence, he'd asked (demanded?) an example._

_In three hours time, he had a full play with music, song, and characters that made him anxious to keep reading. He hired her immediately, and asked her nothing more. She moved in the ballet dormitories, where she became fast friends with young Meg, defending her from jealous bullies. Madame Giry liked her at once, and Danielle adored the ballet instructor._

_A few years passed in blissful peace for the intelligent, warm teenager, however, her past soon caught up with her, as she knew it eventually would._

"_I am looking for my daughter," a lady said stiffly, her birdlike features seeming weak yet harsh all at once. "Her name is Danielle de Martine."_

_Monsieur Lefevre traded glances with Madame Giry, whose face had closed. She shook her head slightly, and Lefevre nodded._

"_Madame—de Martine, was it?-I have only one Danielle at the Opera Populaire, a Danielle __**Giry**__. She is the niece of our illustrious ballet instructor, Madame Giry. I apologize, as I am sure this is not what you desired to hear, but I am afraid I cannot help you."_

_The silent, disconcerting man accompanying Madame de Martine leered, chuckling._

"_I can see my girl, sir—dancing with the other pretties in the back. Bring her here, now—or else I will have to involve the police, Monsieur."_

_Beginning to have a clearer picture at the darker reasons that had driven his playwright from her family home, he waved her over. Her face paled at the sight, but soon she smiled charmingly._

"_Are these new patrons, Monsieur Lefevre?" she inquired politely, feigning ignorance with utter __deftness. The man eyed her with a look that was decidedly not fatherly. She did not acknowledge it._

"_Tell them your name, niece," Madame Giry urged._

"_Me? Are they reporters from the press? The new opera hasn't even opened yet! Oh very well, this is all a bit odd. I am Danielle Giry, niece to the magnifique Madame Giry. Please remember it's Danielle with __**two**__ L's; last time you reporters came, you misspelled my name most abominably," she replied tartly._

"_Stop pretending, daughter, and go home with us now. I am tired," Monsieur de Martine ordered roughly._

"_Home? But I am home, monsieur," she replied bewilderedly. _

"_See? There you go. Now, I must ask that you leave," Monsieur Lefevre ushered them out._

_And that had been that. Madame Giry, later, had asked Danielle why she had left. Haltingly, with bitterness and tremulous courage, she had recounted the tale. Madame Giry embraced her and did not ask again..._

_Not long afterwards, the curious girl had followed the faint sounds of music, seeking peace wearily. It had been coming though a wall, which of course was impossible—or would be if the wall was solid. Determined, she had made her way for the first time to the dimly lit catacombs where she encountered... him._

_He had been fearful and angry, at first. Retorting angrily herself, she had asked him why such a beautiful-souled man hid away down here. That had stopped him; no one had ever thought of him as beautiful, save maybe for Christine who thought he was an angel._

"_Beautiful? Oh madamoiselle, if only you knew..."_

"_Well, I'm not bloody __**deaf**_ _now am I?" she snapped. "That was beautiful music you were playing. Only a beautiful soul could make that sort of music."_

_He'd stared at her, speechless. Her logic seemed simple and stubbornly clung-to. He'd thought the same too, but never of himself. Of others, certainly; those not burdened by his terrible visage. Of Christine, always._

"_I am a monster," he breathed out, anguished. "I am more hideous than you can imagine, little madamoiselle."_

_She'd hesitated then, as if plucking up her courage; she'd taken a deep breath and then continued on. Her guarded eyes had opened a bit, stilling with distinct emotion that he could not interpret._

"_Not from what I can see and hear," she replied softly._

_He touched his mask unconsciously, uncomfortably. He was not used to praise, certainly not from the tastefully appraising looks the girl was giving him. He searched her face, bracing for the laugh, the joke, but none came. Her eyes were wary, cautious, but honest. The only fear in her eyes was the __fear of a stranger, which he certainly was._

"_If you saw beneath my mask, you would agree with me," he stated sadly._

_She shrugged, her green eyes going strangely blank._

"_Monsieur Maestro, we all of us wear a mask. You say that you are hideous—well, if you are hideous, if it lies under your mask, then you are lucky. To bear ugliness in shallow flesh and bone, to be free of it in your soul... no, monsieur, you are a truly rare and fortunate creature indeed. Too many fair men hide monsters where they cannot be seen."_

_Stunned into silence once again, he studied her. She was short, barely breaching five feet. Darkly golden hair waved over smooth shoulders, the somber green dress bringing out the color of her defensive eyes, which were flecked with tawny gold. She wore no jewelry, save for a slim silver necklace around her throat. She was on the cusp of womanhood, destined to be if not a great beauty, then at least to be a very pretty, somewhat imposing woman. _

"_Will you... will you promise me not to scream, if I remove the mask?" he whispered._

_Bitterly, she laughed. He did not like the sound coming from the young girl._

"_Monsieur, I do not scream. And I have endured greater trials than whatever lies behind that mask of yours. I can assure you with confidence, no screams will come from me," she held her head high. Unnerved by her jaded assurance, slowly he removed his mask. _

_Wincing, he waited for the inevitable condemnation._

_She snorted._

"_It's not that bad, monsieur."_

_He glared at her, leering with the whole hideousness of his face, and she _dared_ to say that it _wasn't that bad_?_

"_Really, it's not," she smirked. "I would consider you fair of face, mask or no. It looks just perhaps a bit burnt, nothing more. But then again, maybe I am a weird judge. I have walked strange paths in my lifetime, sir..." she trailed off, her luminous eyes clouding with acute pain._

_He thought of reaching for her, attempting to comfort her as she had comforted him, but decided against it. It would be entirely too forward, and they didn't even know each other's name! Apparently, the thought had not occurred to her—or else she ignored it, which he was fast discerning could be a distinct possibility with the queer young woman._

_Gently, as if she were afraid he would break, she touched his face. Not the handsome, smooth side—the distorted, ugly part of his face. Her tiny hand was cool from the air but quickly warmed. Desperately, he leaned into the rarest of touches. There was no pity in the touch, just a soft mapping of his face._

"_Like I said, monsieur," she breathlessly whispered, "not so bad at all."_

_Reluctantly, she removed her hand. Tears glittered in his blue-green eyes but did not fall; pride prevented it. He contented himself with trying to show his immense gratitude in his eyes._

"_Now then, monsieur," she cleared her throat (was she blushing? Surely not, must be the poor candlelight...) "I believe introductions are in order. I am Danielle Giry."_

_She held out her hand, which he folded into his larger hands carefully._

"_I know you. You are the playwright for Opera Populaire. I admit, I am quite the admirer of your work, though your music could be better. I am... my name is Erik," he gave a small smile._

"_Oh really?" she raised an eyebrow playfully. "Well, why don't you show me some music of your own... Phantom?" she challenged, grinning._

_Surprised that she had put together that he was the elusive boogeyman, he realized that she had probably known from the first instant of their meeting. And still, she had been inhumanly kind to him. A warm rush of gratitude filled him, vowing to repay her someday for looking at his face unflinchingly._

_Settling his mask on, he gave her a competitive smirk of his own._

"_I might have a piece or two lying around..."_

* * *

And so their strange friendship had grown for the past two years, deepening and maturing with time. Madame Giry hadn't approved, but didn't stop it—the Phantom and the Writer had tempered each other, each continuing to slowly but surely blossom with the other. However, she knew that some time ago Danielle had fallen deeply, irrevocably in love with Erik... who only had eyes for his protege, Christine Daae. Admittedly, the older woman was probably the only person who knew of the writer's love; Danielle was a strangely proud, strong woman when it came to her feelings, letting few in when she was hurting. And she _was_ hurting, probably more so than even her beloved 'aunt' could guess at. Christine, of course, had no idea why the tenuous friendship with Danielle had cooled so rapidly over the years. Meg, bless her, chalked it up to the two women growing apart.

Broodingly, Danielle sat in the rafters as La Carlotte walked out for the final time, not a few days before _Il Muto_. Her heart clenching, she wanted to sew her mouth shut, berate herself for causing herself more pain. But her conscience, her love for Erik, demanded it. Sighing, she waited for the managers to stop shouting.

"Good managers! Christine Daae can play the part of Countess," she called out clearly.

_Oh Erik, the things that I do for love... sometimes I wish I were weaker._

"What! Mademoiselle Giry, surely not a chorus girl!"

"She has been taking lessons from an _angel_, Monsieurs!" Danielle laughed wildly, her heart beating brokenly. Christine gasped at the knowledge the young writer had of her lessons. Was that why she had avoided her for so long? Had the Angel of Music frightened her away?

Loudly, from the safety of the shadows, the playwright demanded Christine sing, her voice oddly choked. As Christine's unearthly voice carried across the theatre, she retreated into the obscurity so she could weep in private.


	2. Chapter 2

Interesting note: Comte Philippe is _not_ an OC. He really does exist in the book, pretty much as a playboy. He dislikes Christine, calls her "the little baggage" and I thought he needed to be brought on.

I like to picture Tom Hiddleston playing my version of the Comte de Chagny. It makes meh verreh happeh.

Please review, it makes me happy.

* * *

_**Choose Thy Doom**_

_otherwise known as __**I Thought I Drank My Conscience Away**_

Danielle Giry was drunk.

This was not exceedingly rare, merely unusual. The cast stayed far away for safety's sake, and went about their business. The hush of late night had fallen, thus most of the bustling commotion of the day had faded into uneasy peace. Taking the opportunity, the new Managers were giving their new patron a tour of the back seats to put to rest any question of elegance in every corner.

When she stumbled on stage, a half-empty bottle in her hand, the managers had frozen before nervously beginning to tug the (admittedly foppish) Viscount along. He'd stubbornly refused, peering at the slight figure on the empty stage.

"Is that... Madamoiselle Giry? Is she... is she _drunk_?" he'd asked incredulously, apparently ignorant of her rather... infamous reputation.

"What? Her? Ohh couldn't be, probably one of those blasted cross-dressing stagehands breaking into the costumes again, nothing to see here, Viscount..."

Blissfully ignorant of her hidden audience, she laughed painfully on the stage. She liked coming here when there was no one—the theatre had more ghosts than just shy Erik. She could feel them, the unseen audience, their presence pressing down on her. She had no fear for this mass of ghosts; she reveled in the knowledge that here was the first production of the tragic _comedie_ of her life.

Damn... when had she become such a depressing drunk?

"Come one, come all, to the show tonight! Sure to titillate your palette with fear and delight!" she cried out, twirling around. She was utterly safe from Erik, who was probably just in the warm-ups with his lesson to Christine. It was one of the few times she took advantage of having the massive theatre to herself. Of course, she was drunk...

She could almost hear the unearthly whispers, the hint of paper ruffling. Hmm... what was on the agenda tonight?

"I have decided," she called out merrily. "I have come to A Decision," she pitched her voice comically ominous, imagining snickers. "I am being a rather pathetic creature, indeed. When have I ever let the brunt of my emotions bring me low? Never! So I will help him find his love-" her voice broke for a moment, before she rallied. "-even if it is not me. Even if I cannot know happiness... there can be _peace_. Even if it kills me, I will help him win her over."

Sighing, she spread her arms as if in supplication to the unseen audience. Would they clap for her? Boo? Or merely wait to see how it would all _play_ out?

"Damnable conscience... and here, I thought I had drank it all away... Well, good monsieurs and good madames, I ask for your forbearance. For if all the world's a stage, and its people merely players, then oh, what a farce we have in store for you soon!"

Chuckling, she plopped down on the stage, letting her mind ponder over what would be the perfect theme for Erik (_) _to win over his perfect little soprano, Christine. Hmm... mythology—gods, monsters, maidens—would probably work well. She did her best with focusing on two people, lovers; Zeus winning back Hera? Awful. She would never take back a cheating husband, herself, and assumed Christine at least had enough sense for _that_ as well. Psyche and Eros? Ehh... it had potential. Hades and Perseph-

"_MY GOD I HAVE IT_!" she shouted.

Frantically writing down the outline for her new play, she stopped for a moment. What was the song that Erik sang so angelically? _Music of the Night_? Yesss... Hades could sing that to Persephone, as she awoke in dimly-lit Tartarus. A flower to brighten the realm of the dead...

In the shadows, a figure cocked its head, a strange smirking smile gracing his handsome face. He chuckled; so this was the infamous Danielle Giry, master playwright and apparently a raving drunk. He'd seen her before while he was charming (read as: bedding) the pretty ballerinas and chorus girls. He had tried flirting with her before only to have her cool eyes dismiss him. Admittedly, he was glad to see the chink in her seemingly impenetrable armour. So the bitch had a heart after all... and from what he knew of women, which was extensive, it was probably _breaking_. What a perfect time he picked to visit his spoiled little brother...

"Who is that odd duckling, little brother?" a smooth voice asked as he stepped forward from the shadows.

"Philippe! Brother, when did you get here?" Raoul asked eagerly, embracing his elder brother.

"Long enough to see the mad, pretty lady on the stage," he chuckled, eying her amusedly.

Raoul caught the look, repressing a sigh.

"_That_ is Danielle Giry, playwright-"

"-of _Serenity and Endymion_. Yes, yes, Raoul. I _do_ occasionally come here for the _actual_ productions and not just the ballerinas, you know."

The mangers exchanged uncomfortable looks; _here_ was the scoundrel who kept the dormitories in a fluster with his charming smile, black-as-sin hair, and poison-green eyes. And not a few had ended up in family troubles because of him, though he would claim none of them as his own.

Right. _Trouble_, they communicated in the look they sent each other.

And in the unspoken language that only business partners have, they deftly managed to maneuver the insidiously intrigued Comte Philippe de Chagny and oblivious Vicomte Raoul de Chagny away from the spectacle on the stage.

* * *

It had been a good night, Erik thought to himself with pride.

True, he had been set back by Carlotte's decision to remain in _Hannibal_. He had thought for sure that the egotistical _Prima Donna_ would use it as an excuse to walk away. She had surprised him, but no matter. Christine _would_ play as Countess in _Il Muto_ even if he had to take more... drastic measures.

He made his way back to his lair, contended to plot for a bit. He was surprised to see Danielle sitting on the edge of the grand stage, kicking her short legs off the stage and humming. He cocked his head, taking in the occasional swigs from the rapidly emptying bottle and the frantic scribbling.

He sighed, shaking his head.

Checking and double-checking to make sure that no one was in the seats (he'd passed the managers and their, ugh, _patrons_), stepping up from the stage.

"Go 'way, Erik," she stated, speech slower than her normal briskness but not slurred as he'd feared. "I am _working_. New production. Opera."

"You are _drunk_," he scowled, reaching for the bottle which she promptly (_childishly,_ he thought) moved out of reach.

"I know," she shrugged. "I'm a writer. Comes with the territory, drinking does. Outline's finished, almost. Come to you later for the music maybe," she muttered absently, pausing to reread something. Her eyes darted back and forth quickly.

"It's late, Danielle," Erik rumbled.

"I know that," she snapped.

Instantly regretting it as Erik visibly closed inside himself, her eyes softened. She stood on unsteady legs, and reluctantly he helped her. Stumbling, she found herself in his arms. Her heart was fluttering like a caged bird in her chest, the musty smell of ink and wintergreen invading her senses. Dizzily, she tried to get her emotions in check, falling back on her hard-won control.

It would be so easy, to just let the moment linger, to pretend for one brief moment that she was his beloved anything, that he was her beloved everything.

_I am weak. Love makes me weak._

_**No. I will endure. I will see him happy.**_

She straightened, tearing herself out of his loose, uncomfortable hold. Ramrod straight, she smiled wearily at the wary Erik. He nodded shortly, turning away and half-dragging her to her room to sleep it off.

"What was the melody you were humming? Abominably, I might add," Erik asked to break the unnatural silence. Their silences lately had been strained; the reassuring companionship was slipping away. He was lost—she was the only friend he'd ever really had, and he wasn't quite sure how he'd gotten her in the first place. It was, he reflected, probably her sheer stubborness to accept him and treat him as she did everyone else. There was no pity when she looked at him. Now, he'd caught her watching him differently every now and then. Helplessly, he had realized he had no reference point to interpret it.

"It's a love song," she murmured. "The only one that matters..."

_Strange, even for her. Ahh well, she's fairly drunk._

"What is the premise, imperious Madamoiselle Giry?" he chuckled, unaware of the breath caught in her throat at the rare sound. And she simply decided.

"It's a surprise," she whispered.

"A surprise? Whoever will help you with the music?" he frowned.

Her lips quirked up into a small, secret smile flavored with bittersweetness.

"Ohh... I think I'll manage, Erik," she laughed huskily.

"As you wish," he coldly stated, disappearing as soon as they were at her door.

Collapsing onto her bed, a drunken Danielle Giry laughed breathlessly. _Erik, I love you. And I will see you happy with the one you love, who loves you without reserve, even if it kills me._

* * *

Groaning, the hungover playwright blearily lunged for the coffee, snatching it from Carlotte's hands. Ignoring the indignant shouting, Danielle stared unblinkingly at the raging soprano until she quieted in uneasy fear, remembering when she'd performed _supposedly_ poorly as _Serenity_ that the playwright had attempted to quite literally strangle her.

Carlotte could let her have the coffee.

Letting the warm drink finish waking her up, she was soon back to her brisk self, instructing the actors and actresses firmly. Hours passed, the weaker-constituted players demanding a break mutinously. Catching a look at the time from her fob watch, she nodded, permitting it.

Wiping her face on a towel, she sighed as she heard the managers calling her over.

"Vicomte," she greeted flatly.

"Ooh, I don't think the lady likes you, Raoul. You have good taste," a stranger stage-whispered at her, grinning. She raised an eyebrow authoritatively, not taking the bait.

"Mademoiselle Giry, this is Comte Philippe de Chagny, the Vicomte's brother," Gille introduced nervously. Taking some pity on the men, she held out her hand. Philippe took it gently, flipping it at the last moment, pressing a warm kiss to her wrist.

"Comte!" the managers gasped, scandalized.

Heart pounding, she did not so much snatch her appendage back as reclaim it. Refusing to show any flustering, she calmly made her goodbyes and walked away, trying to ignore the electric sensations rocketing through her. She knew him to be a playboy of the worst kind; obviously, he had set his hat for her.

Scowling, she slipped away to her players, forcing them through grueling practice in preparation for _Il Muto_. Far later into the night than was normal, she finally released them. As they staggered away, muttering about the 'crazy bitch', she attempted to right her world.

"I need a drink," she sighed frustratedly, reaching for her flask.

"Why madame, you had but to ask," a voice smirked.

Whirling around, she found Philippe watching her appreciatively. The unfamiliar churning in her stomach returned full-force, and for the second time in so many days she felt her iron control slipping. Irritated, she turned slightly so he could see the utterly bored look she'd managed.

"Thank you, sir, but I have my own."

"Then come out with me. Let me lead you from your solitude," he smiled. "Have dinner with me. I promise that I will pretend to be a perfect gentleman."

"I'm not hungry," she replied shortly.

"That's alright, I can eat for both of us," he grinned teasingly.

_Bloody hell._

"As you wish, Monsieur de Chagny."

"Comte."

"Monsieur de Comte?" she batted her eyes sweetly.

"You little minx," he chuckled. "I might be smitten."

Rolling her eyes, she ignored the absurd statement.

"I can hardly deny a _patron_. Dinner—and dinner _only—_then I must retire... _alone_," she said pointedly. He gave her an innocent look.

"I promise I will pretend to act like my little brother."

"Then I see that I will be retiring during dinner, then, if only out of sheer boredom. Simply behaving yourself will do, I would _hate_ to have to break your hand," she smiled intensely back.

Leering at her, he nodded.

_Oh dear, what have I gotten myself into? _She thought giddily. _At least it will be a distraction, though I should finish Act One tonight if I push myself. Ahh well, I shouldn't stay out too late anyways..._

Quickly changing, she left on the devilish Count's arm, for once not noticing Erik's overwhelming presence...

* * *

_She's having dinner with a __**Count**__?_

Erik didn't like it.

He didn't like the way he looked at his old friend, didn't like the implications. She had, to his knowledge, never taken a lover, never really considered _love _for herself. The thought that perhaps he didn't know her as well as he thought he did, or that she was deeper than she let on, was disquieting. He rather preferred being the master of his domain _thankyouverymuch_.

"Angel?" Christine's sweet voice broke through his darkening thoughts. His heart lightened, banishing his brooding annoyance.

"_Bravissima..._ you did very well, Christine."

Blushing coquettishly under his praise, she ducked her head shyly.

"Angel of Music, guard and guide me..." she started singing, her voice washing away all thoughts except for how much he adored her.

But in the back of his mind, somewhere away from his thoughts of Christine singing his music, he vowed to keep a closer eye on the affairs afoot in his opera house... _especially_ the troubling de Chagny brothers.


	3. Chapter 3

Despite myself, I think Philippe is slowly becoming one of my favorite characters in this little oddity. A shorter chapter, but inspiration struck me for _Come What May _(hint hint) but I decided to go ahead and post it. I swear, I don't know what it is lately with these shorter chapters. Maybe buying the POTO soundtrack today will provide more inspiration.

* * *

_**Turn the Other Cheek**_

_otherwise known as **So I Can Slap It Too**_

"I APOLOGIZED!" Philippe shouted, stalking after a stonily silent Danielle.

The opera fell silent, gawking at the unexpected scene.

"You tried to kiss me, _Monsieur_," she hissed icily.

"The night was gentle and you were beautiful," he murmured. "Can you really blame me?"

Wincing, he muttered at her cold silence, "I guess you can."

Ignoring him, she continued on without a backwards glance. Growling, he chased after her, the theatre folk making a wide path for the two in a shocking lovers' spat.

"You know, half the women here would dream of a kiss from me," he sneered.

"Then go after them, Monsieur de Chagny. I am certainly not stopping you."

Picking up her pace, she intended to retreat somewhere far away from everyone in the catacombs. It _had_ been a lovely evening...right up until he'd kissed her. Her lips were still tingling from the forbidden fruit he presented. It wasn't like _Erik_ lov-

"Insufferable woman!"

"_Don Juan_!"

Surprised, Philippe threw his head back and laughed. Grabbing her arm, he pulled the fuming woman to him. Twirling her, he sinuously wrapped his arms around her waist despite her struggles.

"Jealousy, is it?" he whispered silkily. "Ohh don't worry, _ma cherie_. I find you _far_ too _fascinating_ to consider anyone else at the moment."

"It is _hardly_ jealousy!" she snarled. "This was our _first—_and now _only—_dinner together!"

"Oh come now, beautiful Mademoiselle Giry! Surely it is not as all bad as that," he chuckled.

Deftly grabbing a red rose from a stunned ballerina, he carefully brushed it over her ear. His cool hand lingered for a moment on her soft cheek. She looked up at him in utter fury.

"Perhaps not," she smirked.

Sensing victory, he tipped her head, intent to claim another kiss. Just as he was about to reach her warm lips, the echo of a hard slap resounded through the air. Not a few gasps were heard with it. She glared up at him, face flushed, chest heaving with her anger. He touched his cheek tenderly, then grinned widely.

"Finally, I get an honest reaction from you, _ma petite_. It's nice to see something of what you're feeling. Privacy is an admirable trait that I tend to ignore, but if we're to continue this wild dance, you _must_ be a little more open. And next time, not so hard! Let's not make me look like Raoul."

Danielle opened her mouth, closed it, and looked ready to strangle him. Deciding against any more rash actions, she settled for a muffled scream and hasty exit.

"Same time, _petite_?" he called after her cheekily.

"NOT IF I CAN HELP IT!"

"Shall I bring the carriage?"

"FINE."

"Perfect!"

Whistling, Philippe strode away casually. He raised an eyebrow at Raoul, who looked aghast, his face turning white. Rolling his green eyes, he patted his little brother on the head as he passed.

"Now now, Raoul, you'll understand some day. Like when you hit puberty."

"_Shall I have a word with you in private, brother_?" Raoul ground out.

Shoving the taller, leaner man into a storage room, he panted with the sheer _surreality_ of the situation. His brother would _never_ tolerate such behaviour from a woman, playwright or no. The Don Juan jab hadn't been far off from the truth, he hated to admit; his brother collected and played with hearts like some men collected butterflies or stamps. This—this _playfulness_, this _patience_ meant an entirely new game was afoot.

"What is it, little Raoul? I never fussed when you played sweetheart to that cellist's girl."

"_VIOLINIST_!"

"Same difference," Philippe waved his hand. "As I recall, you wouldn't shut up about her. I don't prattle on after my little _petite cherie_, do I? Besides, this is a game that only she and I would understand."

"We are _patrons_, Philippe!"

"So we are! Best we inspect the goods," he replied cheerfully. "I already have my eye on the grand prize, but I'm sure there's some consolation prizes lying around somewhere. Go have a fling with a chorus girl, or something. Do you good, make a man out of you."

"ARGH!"

"Oooh, I like that. Very savage, much better than the squeak. If you'll excuse me, I must leave to go make another plan of attack."

"I demand you stop this at once, brother!"

Turning on him, he slammed his younger brother against the wood, the thud loud in the room. His eyes nearly glowing in the windowless twilight, the candle's flame reflected eerily in their green depths. His smile was chilling.

"If you recall, Raoul, _I_ am the older brother. You will _not_ interfere in my affairs or I will start to interfere in _yours_. I promise that you wouldn't enjoy my meddling _at all_. _**Do you understand me**_?"

Raoul nodded mutely, somewhat frightened of this side of his brother. Unwittingly, he remembered long days of being locked in a cellar, screaming to get out and the voice that laughed tauntingly beyond the doors...

Tipping his hat jauntily, the Comte slipped away.

* * *

Safe from everyone else in her safe haven of the catacombs, she let out a long sigh of relief as she listened to the distant magic of Erik's music. Christine's sweet soprano joined his baritone, the two mixing and mingling in aching perfection. Tears pricking her eyes, she rubbed them off aggravatedly.

But hearing them together, even though it pained her deeply, made her even more resolved to bring Christine around to the idea of... well, of _Erik_ and not her perfect Angel of Music. Although, honestly... she thought he was her _father_? Shaking her head, she cursed all of the melodramatic love stories around her for turning her into some emotional fool. Obviously, she was going to need to start immersing herself in her work, let her emotions pour out through the safe outlet. It was a better alternative to letting her feel them herself.

Curling up, she settled in comfortably in her secret nook, letting the hours slip away into the wee dawn of the early morning. She let herself get lost in the world unfurling from deep within her imagination, the characters growing dear to her. Danielle couldn't wait to see how it ended, but that was two acts away. Who should be the antagonist?

"It would be ironic if it was a besotted Eros," she mumbled to herself.

Pausing, she shrugged after a moment of consideration. It would make for an interesting move; could she subtly imply that Eros represented not love, as his mother did, but infatuation? Paint him with just enough of a sinister note and Persephone would recoil with horror. She would run straight to Hades' open arms despite his face...

Yes. It would be the perfect set-up for the vague ending she had in mind.

* * *

"Very well, Christine," Erik beamed at her. "You are well-prepared for you debut in _Il Muto_."

"But Carlotte returned-"

"To unnerve you, nothing more. She returned to only to court the managers' favor. _She will not receive it, Christine._"

Christine felt a shiver down her spine. Murmuring her humble thanks to the Angel, she left the chapel troubled. More and more she was feeling like the Angel was the most plausible reason for her and Danielle's strained friendship, for Madame Giry's lines around her sharp eyes. She doubted she would have ever started putting things together herself, but being around Danielle de Giry any extended length of time made her take a deeper look at things and people. The woman was so emotionally reserved she had to use all her observational skills to detect any flicker of feeling.

It was beginning to frighten her.

If only Raoul, dear beloved Raoul, would notice her all grown up...

* * *

He found her curled up, asleep.

_She looks so much younger_, he thought fondly. _No longer carrying the weight of her world on her shoulders_.

The shuttered expression had softened in peaceful sleep, taking long years off. Unbound soft waves of gold brushed over his hands as he gently picked her up. Cradling her to his broad chest, he realized he often forgot how small she was—her personality was so strong it made her seem larger than she was. Sleepily she blinked up at him, eyes lighting up in delight as they took in his face. Sometimes she made him feel like he wasn't such half a man...

"Erik?" she whispered, voice slurred with exhaustion.

"Yes, Danielle?" he replied, hushed.

Smiling, she nestled into his shoulder, nuzzling his neck. Sighing happily, he froze mid-step as Danielle murmured one last sentence before falling back into slumber.

"I'm glad you're here, Erik."

Swallowing, he discretely glanced to see if she'd been drinking. Both surprised and not that she hadn't, he resigned himself to the knowledge that he'd take snippets of her mind—and apparently heart's—inner workings when he could.

If only Christine could sing such a thing to him...


End file.
